


Love Post-Mortem

by Megane



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, POV Second Person, Romance, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-28
Updated: 2013-08-28
Packaged: 2017-12-24 22:45:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/945550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Megane/pseuds/Megane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He had stricken her deep into her heart, and yet here she comes to your crypt, seeking comfort of all things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Post-Mortem

The feel of her lips were exquisite. It was well worth teasing her over and over. She could only take so much before she decided to prove you right. She was masculine, yes, but the way she moved was so unmistakably feminine. Wielding a chainsaw made her nimble, chaotic even, fingers strong from work. Despite that, she was still so soft, so graceful. And it all reflected in the movement of her hips.

 _He_ had hurt her once— no, too many times before. Each tear had melted away from her as you kissed away the pain. Each encounter with her probably led to this, but at least she had taken you seriously. Which was a feat, because you were _such_ a joker. _Such_ a mad man. But _she_ was a mad _woman_. You kept your hands in modest places like the nape of her neck, the small of her back. She pulled back and grinned at you, sharpened teeth flashing in the light. Or so you would imagine.

> “Shy, old man?” she teased. Her voice dropped just a tad. She lifted a hand, gently grazing against your bottom lip as she focused on it. “I never would have thought.”
> 
> You laugh your wicked little laugh. “Of course not, but I wanted to respect the lady.”

 You're jesting, but her smile wavers a little. It softens around the edges, and she smiles with closed lips.

> “Hm.” She wraps her arms around your neck and pulls closer. “But what if I were to ask you to _stop_ respecting me?”
> 
> “Aah, whatta strange request.” You slowly snake your arms around her masculine yet delicate form. “Should I molest whatever innocence you have and leave you quaking for more sin?”
> 
> She snorts at you, fingers tangling in your long, silvern hair. “You make me sound so pure, so _untouchable._ ” She pulls her head away, removing her glasses and folding them with one hand. “How mistaken you are.”
> 
> “Surely, I'm not.”
> 
> “Prove it.” She taps her glasses against the side of her head, near the corner of her right eye.

You stare at her behind your curtain of hair. Your smile is still there, but it's just a broad mask across your face. The meaning is in your eyes, a place where she cannot see.

> “Your heart is broken,” you state.
> 
> She rolls her eyes. “Must you rub it in, you old fool?” She turns her head away.
> 
> Lifting a hand, you correct her misguided vision and let out a small laugh. “As if you can see where you're looking.” She narrows her bleary eyes at you. “ _Your heart is broken,_ ” you repeat. “I don't want you to make any mistakes.”
> 
> “Are you saying you're a mistake?”
> 
> “Possibly.”
> 
> And she frowns at you, an uncharacteristic expression of deep disappointment and hurt. “And where am I to go, if you cast me from your bed?”

Poor girl, so lost. You hold her close. Not too long ago, moments had passed between your lips, full of passionate kissing and curious touches. You held her in your lap, even now, and pulled her closer and closer, beckoning silently for her to stay connected to you. And now here she is asking such a ridiculous thing. How long had her confidence been shaken? She had been hiding away all this time, hadn't she? Poor girl. Poor, poor girl to chase a man with all her heart. Deep, genuine, maniacal affections so wholesomely rejected. 

> “You'll return to your flat,” you mutter quietly, trailing long nails down to her neck. “And tomorrow, you'll come back.”

Her brows lift into her hair line as she stares down at you. Her acidic eyes search for your own, but the confusion is evident on her face. 

> “Or spend a night in my crypt.”
> 
> “And so _you're_ Mr. Romantic? Oh, great. My luck!” She rubs the heel of her hand from her cheek to her forehead.

You laugh; you have to. It's a little ironic, isn't it? 

> “Spending time with me is better than being alone. You need repair.”
> 
> “Forgive me, but you're entirely the opposite of an apothecary.”
> 
> “I mend the dead and console the living.” You lace your fingers together against her lower back. “We're a fixed mix of being betwixt and between.”

She stares at you, confusedly accessing the situation. You could see the years she devoted to _him_ , to following her heart, and secretly longing for her own slice of happiness. You click your tongue against the roof of your mouth, plucking her hair away from her face. Her face relaxes, and she laughs as though torn between humour and some heart-wrenching emotion you were unable to place. “You mad, old fool.” Her voice is riding on the line. Something is hurting.

Let it hurt. At one point, she requested you take her heart away when she first came to you in her despondent stupor. But now, that craving connection is back. The heated and desperate searching just begs for direction. For as long as you've known her— and my, wasn't that long —you've known her for strength, for psychosis, for... Many things, but she's _still_ a woman in love, a woman spurned.

She lets you lead, shrinking away for a moment when your hands search her body. You smile against her lips, pulling her close once again as you recline on the sofa. Her red hair curtains over you both, and she lifts her hand, combing your hair out of your eyes. She bites her lip, staring down into your eyes before claiming your lips again. There's nothing sinful about your exploration. You never knew consolation through physicality. You never knew intimacy through closeness so mutual. You tremble a little, overwhelmed as something unhinges within you.

The kiss ends, and you gaze into her eyes, she into yours. Her laugh interrupts the moment, and she lowers her head against your shoulder. She shakes her head slowly. “I feel like a fool.” You shake your head and just hold her until she finds it fit to get up and leave. You escort her to the foyer, holding the door open. She swings her toothy device onto her shoulder. She turns and stares up at you before closing the distance and pressing a kiss to your smiling lips. 

> “I'll see you tomorrow,” she promises quietly, pulling away and stepping out into the crisp English night.

You close the door without a word and lock it all down for the night. She'll arrive like clockwork until her heart is completely mended. And then, who knows? That heart just very well might be yours without all the lovely gore.


End file.
